Have
by Athan Raczynski
Summary: 'That he hasn't had anyone doesn't mean he has no idea what might occur when two people attracted to each other are, hypothetically, in a sitting room illuminated by the warm light of burning fire; it certainly doesn't stop the thousand illicit thoughts that flood his never-stopping brain.' Sort of missing scene from ASiB.


_*waves her hand to the fandom* Hi fandom! I am very much pleased to share with you my first attempt at writing Sherlock. __Beware the smut; if you don't like, don't read. It's also my first try at that, though I feel pretty much pleased with the result._

_Set during A Scandal in Belgravia._

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**Have**

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"Have you ever had anyone?"

The implications of her question are actually very much explicit to his ears; he doesn't really need her to explain herself to understand. Have[hav; _unstressed_ h_uh_ v, _uh_ v; for 26 usually haf], verb and auxiliary verb: 1. to be in possession of; 2. to possess as a characteristic, quality, or function; 3. to be subject to the experience of; 4. to engage in sexual intercourse with.

To respond her question: no, he has never had anyone.

It doesn't mean he has no idea what might occur when two people attracted to each other are, hypothetically, in a sitting room illuminated by the warm light of burning fire; it certainly doesn't stop the thousand illicit thoughts that flood his never-stopping brain. What will her skin feel like against his tongue? Is she a tender lover, or is just as aggressive as her tactics in this game have been? Are the noises she makes in the brisk of passion similar to his text alert? Is she wearing any undergarments, or it's just her pristine skin under the silk of his dressing gown?

But body is just transport, and he plays dumb instead.

"Let's have dinner," her velvety voice whispers a breath away from him, her elegant hand hovering his. That single point of contact is simultaneously everything and nothing. It feels like the mysteries of life are all imprinted in the unique pattern of her fingertips, and might her touch linger, he'll discover all the answers.

And there's nothing he loves more than knowledge and wisdom.

"Would you have dinner with me?"

Body is just transport, a mean to achieve the goals his mind pursues.

And what his mind wants now is her.

When he closes the distance between and kisses her, he grants her silent permission to dominate him, to take control away from him. He wants her to discover what he likes, to have him begging, to silence the ever-present roaring of his brain even if just for five seconds, to make him discover the pure bliss only ordinary men seem to accomplish.

The dressing gown pools around her feet before she climbs into his lap, straddling his hips with only his trousers and her knickers as a barrier between their aching bodies. He grasps her skin, goose bumps breaking through it as his hands map out the curves of her figure, a chill running down his spine as her red nails rake across his chest through the fabric of his shirt, her fingers deft and quick at liberating him from the oppression of his clothing.

He doesn't kiss her again, not because he doesn't want to, but by his own need to observe everything. Will ever be an insight on the expressions of a female during orgasm necessary for a case? He very much doubts it, but the non-required trivia seems worthy of space in his Mind Palace.

He hisses as she silently takes him in her hand; being reduced to a shuddering mess seems suddenly more appealing that it was in uni, when he didn't lack the desire but the attention. His eyes close out of their own volition, this sensorial flood too overwhelming for his usual standards, but he forces them open just in time, when she slides down his length.

The groan that escapes his lips is unlike any sound he's ever made, and the only indication that she's enjoying herself at all comes in the sight of her white teeth biting her lower lip. She remains noiseless for the time being, as if allowing him to express pleasure for the both of them, and he obliges, choked moans, sighs and screams alike emanating from the back of his throat.

She results a fine mixture between rough and gentle, he finds out as she bites lightly the pulse on his neck while her smooth hands caress his upper arms. She treats him both as if he were her most precious treasure as well as if he were the world's biggest sinner, grinding her hips against him in torturous motions that don't seem to alleviate the pressure that builds lower in his abdomen.

Restlessly, his hands remain at her sides, moving to the compass of her motions, until she notices his apparent discomfort and finds a quick solution. Her left hand covers his right, guiding it to one of her breasts. It doesn't require a genius to put two and two together, and soon his longer fingers tweak a pink, hardened nipple. Her response is just what he'd aimed for: her breath hitches and she bites harder on her lip.

At some point her eyelids close and he takes advantage of her other breast; his tongue taunts her flesh, salty with perspiration, as she arches deeper into his mouth. The sound that she makes is his reward; it's the one he's heard countless times coming from his mobile, yet it's different and all the more sensual listening to it live. It doesn't last long, though; she soon pushes him to the back of the armchair, something alluringly menacing gleaming from the thin ring of pale blue still visible in her eyes. It takes him a minute to realise her expression, to understand her reaction.

She has him all figured out.

He draws pleasure from his deductions, craftily built around observation and experimentation, and as such she finally grants him permission to explore her, but she can't just let him lose the bigger picture. His hair is pulled whenever he brings much attention to a particular spot of her anatomy, her eyes whips that scold him as the tension between them increases.

That is, until his hand connects with her most sensitive flesh.

She doesn't push him away. Instead, her hands ghosts over his and instructs him with the exact motions she likes. It feels like a life time, but it might as well have been only minutes before she feels suddenly too warm and tight around him, and as she clenches and screams (that's the only way to put it), he watches with fascination her features, a complete blend of enjoyment and satisfaction. He has enough presence of mind to withdraw his hand and hold her, thus avoiding her from falling behind, yet he still manages to pull her against him one, two, three times and then he's just as lost as she is, blind spots dancing around his vision, pleasure weaving from his centre to the rest of the universe.

He is almost certain he's being loud as he empties himself into her, but he can't hear a single noise above the blood rushing in his ears. It's only when the buzz fades down that he notices her mouth aggressively attacking his, tongue and teeth silencing the groans that are unbeknownst to him. He won't complain, though, as he devours her with equal enthusiasm, unwilling, for the time being, to break this nearly sacred connection between them.

Until a scream brings them back to reality.

"Sherlock!"

And she's now kneeling in the floor before him, his blue dressing gown clad around her curves, hands wrapped around each other over the armrest. His tailored suit is still over his body, and the lust that once filled her eyes is rapidly replaced with disappointment.

"Too late," she whispers before retreating to her seat.

He easily ignores the vivid figments of his fantasy as he strolls down the stairs, only faltering when he is about to climb the sleek black car his brother sent for him. He takes a look up to his window, contemplating The Woman that looks down in return.

And, for a brief moment, he wonders if she's wearing any undergarments, or if it's just her pristine skin under the silk of his dressing gown.

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_Feel free to leave a word or two about this. If it's good, it might inspire me to write more; it it's horrendous enough, it might help me avoid in a future the mistakes I made._

_See you guys around!_


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